A Good Difference
My father knew the city as Saigon—
I know it as Ho Chi Minh City
and I get in a morning walk, buying
an ice cream at a shop, I thank you
welcome, welcome the owner says.
Even at this early hour the motorbikes
are commandeering the streets, birds
fluttering in and out of the great noise.
I approach a group of young men
idling their bikes by a pho factory—
I ask them in my poor Vietnamese
if they might give me a ride for ride’s sake.
They say yes and I climb on a blue beauty.
I ask to be driven along the ancient
river, the one I fell in love with,
the one my father remembered for its sad trees.
© Tim Suermondt
Tim Suermondt
The Loch Raven Review 